Breaking Trust
by theflockroxmysox
Summary: Mathew Keller thought he'd beaten Neal Caffrey, until a wall of bars and a barbed wire fence separated him from the rest of the world. Now, he's escaped, and will stop at nothing to beat the ex-con.
1. Let the Games Commence

**Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar, sadly.**

**This is my first attempt at a White Collar fic. Thanks to those who have followed me from my previous Psych story, I hope this is just as good (:**

**White Collar Quote of the Day: "No, Peter, menacing. You look like someone whose kid just struck out." ~ Neal**

**-O-**

**Chapter 1**

**Let the Games Commence**

The federal prison was busy that day. Lawyers in dark business suits and inmates in bright orange suits infested the hallways, visiting rooms, and jail cells as the city prepared for its biggest trial since Neal Caffrey. Over a dozen members of one of the most violent gangs in New York City had been arrested several days ago, and even some pedestrians had come to watch the goings-on of the preparations.

Down a side corridor, far away from the main rooms, stood a solitary figure. He moved casually, striding forward as though he was used to being respected, and in some cases feared. A briefcase swung idly by his side, matching the black color of his suit. He stuck to the side of the corridor, staying out of direct light and making it look as though he were nothing more than a shadow. His head was tilted downwards, but he looked up and glanced at the jumble of prisoners and lawyers in the adjoining room.

Nodding to a guard, he made his way out of the building. He walked purposely over to a gray Honda Civic, popping the trunk and putting the briefcase in the back. He pulled out of the lot, just as the sirens started blaring their warning. But they were too late. Mathew Keller had just escaped.

-O-

Neal stood in front of a giant easel, his brush gently stroking the canvas, creating the sloped line of a tree with ease. He stood back, dipping the brush in a glass of water as he admired his work. He stared at the sloping lines of the trees, the dry brushstrokes of the long, waving grass surrounding the rundown house on the edge of the woods, and realized this must have been the first time in his life he hadn't been painting a fake of an original. Mozzie would be shocked.

The door opened, and Mozzie barged in.

"Speak of the devil," Neal muttered, setting down the brush.

"Excuse me?" Mozzie asked, stepping over the threshold. He seemed hurt by the comment, but despite that, was already on to another topic. "That's nice. What is it, a Monet? Picasso? Da Vinci?" he gestured at the painting.

"Uh, no, actually, it's an original."

"Yeah, but an original what? You know, who's is it?" Neal gave Mozzie a skeptical look, and Mozzie understood. "Wait a minute, you mean-? You painted that? From here?" he touched a hand to his temple.

"Yeah, Moz, I did," Neal said. He walked away from the painting and towards his friend. "What do you want?"

"What? A guy can't just visit his friend because he feels like it?" Mozzie was taken aback, hands spread wide.

"Not with you, Moz," Neal sighed.

"Okay, okay, you're right. I didn't drop by to say hi. I also wanted to steal a glass of your magnificent wine," he moved toward the wine rack, only to stop as he received a slap on the hand from Neal. "What?" Neal raised an eyebrow at him. "Okay, fine," he conceded. "I think I have a tail."

"I thought you knew how to slip tails. Old Mozzie's not losing his touch, is he?" Neal teased, earning a glare from Mozzie.

"This one's different. I think it's a suit," Mozzie lowered his voice, as though his supposed tail that probably didn't even exist was watching them even now.

"I'll see what I can do," Neal sighed. He made a note to ask Peter later.

"Good. Now, may I please have some wine?"

Neal moved away from the wine rack in answer.

The two friends sat at the table for awhile, sipping from the wine glasses and talking about the goings-on of the world. Each danced delicately around the whole Kate/music box situation, not sure if now would be the time to bring it up. Eventually, night fell, and Mozzie left. Neal put the glasses away, rinsing them in the sink before stashing them. He made his way back to the painting, and picked up his brush.

An hour later, there was a knock on his door. He let go of the brush, wiped his hands on the smock around his waist, slipped it off, and walked over to the door. He hesitated before opening it. What if it was Peter? He had been planning to give Peter the painting for his birthday, and he couldn't see it before it was finished. He backtracked, grabbing a folded cloth from the couch and draping it over the canvas.

"Neal?" June's voice was muffled on the other side of the door.

"Yes?" he asked, pulling the door open and leaning against the frame. He frowned. If his visitor had been Mozzie or Peter, they would have just shown themselves up.

"There's a man here. He says he's an old friend of yours."

"What's his name?"

"He didn't give one," June answered, sounding perplexed. "Do you want me to let him up?"

Neal hesitated. Usually, when someone didn't give a name, it was because they didn't want to be recognized. "Yeah, sure."

She left, closing the door behind her. Neal glanced at the locked desk drawer where he kept his gun – the one he'd bought at a yard sale (they'd asked to see a permit, of course) so that Peter wouldn't know about it – wondering if he should unlock it or not. The decision was made for him, the door opening before he had time to make up his mind.

Neal froze, staring in shock at the figure in the doorway. The figure in the doorway smiled, stepped over the threshold, and drew something from his pocket.

-O-

Peter Burke sat opposite his wife, Elizabeth, as they ate dinner. The clang of silverware against plates was interwoven with casual dinner conversation.

"So how was Neal today?" Elizabeth asked, swallowing a mouthful of chicken pot pie.

"Surprisingly helpful," was Peter's answer. "He made a breakthrough on the art smuggling case we've been working on."

"Art smuggling," She nodded. "Sounds exciting. Did you catch the guy?"

"No, but we're close."

"Does this mean you have to go into work early tomorrow?" Elizabeth teased, making a mock-pout face.

Peter glared sarcastically at her. "No, actually. Jones is the one doing all of the 'early work'. I just have to be there for the finale."

"Ah, I see. So that you can see the look on the bad guy's face when he realizes you aren't actually a client."

Peter chuckled. "Something like that."

His cell phone rang abruptly, cutting of his next words. He finished his sip of wine, glanced apologetically at his wife, and reached into his pocket.

"Peter Burke," he answered.

"Peter, it's Neal," It was Diana's voice, and she sounded upset.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. What do you mean, 'it's Neal'?" He glanced at Elizabeth, who shrugged.

"Neal cut his anklet, Peter. He's gone."

**-O-**

**So, what'd you think? Reviews are much appreciated (:  
**


	2. Clues

**Thank you all for your reviews so far! I appreciate them all (:**

**White Collar Quote of the Day: "Ok, we stop the judge from taking the Sullivan home. Then we get her disrobed… You know what I meant... If we lean on her hard enough, she'll flip on Fowler. You know what I meant! ...That's not what I meant..." ~ Peter**

**Chapter 2**

**Clue**

_"Neal cut his anklet, Peter. He's gone."_

Peter choked on his wine. Coughing and spewing wine droplets, he tried to absorb what he'd just heard. "What?"

"His tracking anklet went offline two minutes ago."

"Dammit, Neal. Okay, uh, meet me at his place," Peter was rising out of his chair as he said this, provoking a confused look from his wife. He flipped his phone shut. "Neal's on the run."

Elizabeth's chair creaked against the hardwood floor as she stood up. "Oh, God."

Peter grimaced. "Yep. I gotta go."

It was on the short car ride over that Peter had time to calm his raging thoughts, and actually process what had just happened. He was shocked, no, he was _more_ than shocked that Neal had decided to cut his anklet – now, just as he was building up trust within the agency. He'd been so cooperative ever since the incident with Fowler, and everyone had quickly put the event behind them. Including Peter, who was now cursing himself for being too quick to trust an ex-thief, forger, and conman. But at the same time, something didn't feel right. Neal wouldn't just up and leave like this. There would have been some warning. Like the time Neal saw the ring on Peter's finger, and, thinking he had Kate, had decided to run. That whole day he'd been acting weird, saying things that didn't make any sense.

Peter pulled up outside the giant mansion-like house, and cut the engine. Several dark SUVs were already parked on the curb, indicating that the rest of the team was already here. He made his way into the house and up the stairs, trying to come up with something to say. Neal was supposed to be his responsibility. And Neal was gone.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but whatever it was, he didn't get it. The room was as neat and orderly as the last time Peter had been there. Nothing was out of place, save for the black tracking anklet sitting on the table next to the old chess board.

"Peter," Diana walked over, meeting his eyes as an unspoken conversation passed between them. Why had Neal left, especially considering they were closer than ever to unraveling the secrets of the music box and Kate's death?

"What happened here?" Peter asked, stepping over the threshold.

"Don't know. We got a call that Caffrey's anklet had deactivated, Diana called you, we came over here, and found this-" he picked up the tracking accessory, "-on the floor by the couch, next to this-" he pointed at another object lying next to the anklet, "-a pair of scissors, used to cut the anklet."

"Dammit, Neal," Peter scanned the room, hand unconsciously raising his hand to rub the back of his head.

There was nothing to indicate which exit he'd left from, what he'd done before he cut the anklet, nothing. Nothing at all.

Except… the canvas with the sheet draped over it. Peter walked over, and pulled it off. What lay underneath nearly took Peter's breath away. It was a gorgeous landscape painting – an old, rustic shack perched on a grassy hillside, a forest of trees and sparse undergrowth populating the left half of the painting. Peter had seen some of Neal's works – forgeries, actually – before, but there was something different about this painting. Besides the fact that the sky wasn't filled in, and the forest wasn't completely finished. That was strange in and of itself. Neal wouldn't have left without finishing his painting – not the Neal he knew. Not the Neal he _thought_ he knew.

He made his way over to the coffee table, idly tracing a finger along its surface as he scrutinized the rest of the room. Something caught his eye, and he stopped at the coat hanger next to the door. Neal's hat hung there, looking as cartoony as ever.

He turned back to the waiting assembled agents. "Okay, I want an APB out on Caffrey. Jones, check all of Neal's usual haunts."

"What about you, boss?" Diana asked, watching Peter carefully.

"I'm going to call Mr. Havershim," Peter looked pointedly at her.

"Who?" Jones asked.

"Neal's friend," when Jones didn't move, Peter snapped, "Go!"

All of the officers left in a hurry. Peter whipped out his phone, dialing. The only number he had was one Mozzie had given him a while ago. He'd called it a one-use-only phone, but maybe it would work.

"What up, suit?" Mozzie answered on the third ring. "Did Neal talk to you about my tail yet?"

Peter didn't answer.

"Wait a minute, this is about Neal, isn't it? Something happened to Neal. Ah, dammit! Is he okay? He's not dead, is he?"

"Mozzie, calm down!" Peter snapped. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. "Neal cut his anklet. He's on the run."

"So he's dead?"

Peter sighed at Mozzie's paranoia. "No! Mozzie, did Neal mention anything to you about running away?"

"No, no, of course he didn't. In fact, he was talking very highly of you last time I saw him. I probably shouldn't say this, but he mentioned a painting he was working on. He was going to give it to you for your birthday. Did he really run?"

"His anklet was cut. You said he was painting that for my birthday?" Peter asked, stepping back over to the canvas.

"Yeah. Listen, do me a favor. Don't tell him I said anything, it was supposed to be a surprise."

Peter scoffed. "Yeah, I'll be sure to remember that if I ever _see_ him again," he shook his head, hanging up. He turned to Diana, who had stayed behind. "Why would Neal start a painting, intending to give it to me as a gift, and then run before he had time to finish it?"

"I don't know, boss," Diana shrugged.

"And why would he leave his hat? He never goes anywhere without that."

"Look, if you want to get inside Neal's head, you're asking the wrong person. I've tried to stay as far away from that mind of his as possible since the day I met him."

Peter was silent. It just didn't make sense. Why start a painting, and then not finish it? Maybe his running off was impromptu, maybe he hadn't planned it. And he could've just left the hat behind because he knew it would be easy for someone to spot in a crowd. Those were all plausible explanations, but Peter still felt as if something was off.

And then his phone rang, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Tell me you have something, Jones," he answered somewhat tersely.

"Nothing exactly," Jones paused, as though trying to come up with his next words. "It doesn't really have anything to do with Caffrey."

"You wouldn't be calling if that were true."

Jones hesitated. "Mathew Keller broke out of prison earlier this morning. He's on the run."

**-O-**

***cue danger music* :O This can't be good. Review and let me know your thoughts (:**


	3. The Water Gets Hotter

**I've decided to make covers for my fanfiction stories, including this one. If you want to check it out, I'll post the link at the end of this chapter and also on my profile page. Don't forget to leave your comments!**

**White Collar Quote of the Day: "I don't think he bugged the dog." ~ Elizabeth**

**-O-**

**Chapter 3**

**And the Water Gets Hotter**

Bright light filtered into the room, peppering on the opposite wall as it found its way through clear spots in the small, grungy window that was the only source of light. The glow wasn't strong enough to be warming, but nonetheless it found its way between the eyelids of the slouched and sleeping figure resting in the only piece of furniture in the room – a chair – and waking him. Neal Caffrey blinked his eyes open, stifling a moan. With his consciousness came the pain in his head – a throbbing ache that pounded against his skull, making him wince. He squinted against the sunlight, trying to move his stiff-muscled limbs – and coming up short as they met with rope. His wrists were tied to the armrests of the chair.

Neal's eyes snapped open. If he hadn't been fully awake before, he was now. He strained against the ropes, only succeeding in proving how securely they were tied. A shot of adrenaline coursed through his body, shaking the last clinging webs of sleep from his mind. He blinked, rapidly, as the events of the previous night flooded his mind.

_"There's a man here. He says he's an old friend of yours."_

_"What's his name?"_

_"He didn't give one," June answered, sounding perplexed. "Do you want me to let him up?"_

_Neal hesitated. Usually, when someone didn't give a name, it was because they didn't want to be recognized. "Yeah, sure."_

_She left, closing the door behind her. Neal glanced at the locked desk drawer where he kept his gun – the one he'd bought at a yard sale (they'd asked to see a permit, of course) so that Peter wouldn't know about it – wondering if he should unlock it or not. The decision was made for him, the door opening before he had time to make up his mind._

_Neal froze, staring in shock at the figure in the doorway. The figure in the doorway smiled, stepped over the threshold, and drew something from his pocket._

_Matthew Keller grinned at Neal's reaction, casually directing the muzzle of the gun in his direction. Neal was frozen. He couldn't speak, and even if he could have nothing would have come out. He could barely force himself to take three steps back, as it was._

_Keller practically sauntered into the room, smiling as he said, "Evening, Neal. This is a nice place you got here."_

_It was as if the man's words had broken some sort of spell, and Neal was able to speak again. "What do you want, Keller?" He didn't bother asking if Keller was supposed to be in jail. He was, and yet he wasn't. He'd promised Neal that he would escape. It was looking like he'd kept his promise._

_In answer, Keller handed Neal a pair of scissors._

"_What are these for?" Neal asked._

"_You know."_

_And Neal did know. He knew as he looked down the barrel of the gun, where this was going. He took the scissors, it's not like he had a choice, and leaned down, slicing through the thick plastic of his anklet. He moved slowly, trying to formulate a plan of some kind. Was there any way he could leave a message for Peter? _

_As he straightened, he caught sight of his hat. It would have to do. _

_Keller led Neal out of the mansion, covering the gun with a jacket as they passed by the room occupied by June. A dark van was waiting on the curb. Keller A dark van was waiting on the curb. Keller gestured for Neal to climb into the back. He hadn't even sat down when he was slammed in the back of the head with what he could only assume was the butt end of the gun._

Neal slouched again against the chair, angry. Angry with himself for being here. Angry with Mozzie for leaving him alone. Angry with June for letting a stranger into her home. He didn't force himself to calm down, either. The anger masked the fear.

He knew that Peter, along with the rest of the FBI and probably even Mozzie, would think that he had run away. The hat really wasn't much of a clue. There were no signs of struggle in his room, only a tampered anklet and no Caffrey. It really was a good plan on Keller's part, and Neal probably would have admired it more if it hadn't been for the fact that he was the main factor in it.

The door in the far corner of the room opened, and Matthew Keller walked in. Strolled would have been a more appropriate word. He even smiled as he caught sight of Neal.

"You're awake!"

Neal stared at him.

"Your buddies over at the FBI are going crazy, tripping over themselves to figure out why you'd _run away_. It's amusing."

Neal glared at him.

"Say something, you idiot! Don't just sit there!" Keller snapped.

Neal didn't want to comply, but he had to get answers to his burning questions. "Why am I here?" he asked.

Keller chuckled. Neal didn't like chucklers. "You're here so that I can beat Neal Caffrey, once and for all."

-O-

_"Matthew Keller broke out of prison earlier this morning. He's on the run."_

"Why didn't we hear about this earlier?" Special Agent Peter Burke snapped, clanking his palm against his desk for emphasis. He'd been asking that question ever since Jones had provided him with the information last night. And the answer had been the same every time. The prison had been so busy with preparing for the upcoming trial that it had been pushed aside. The perfect opportunity.

"Peter, calm down. It's just a coincidence," Diana sighed, impatient at her boss's insistence that Neal was not a fugitive. She may have been in on the music box secret, but that didn't mean she trusted Neal any more than before.

She wasn't the only one with that opinion. Most of the agents, including Hughes, refused to even consider that Keller had something to do with Caffrey's disappearing act. The word "coincidence" kept cropping up.

Peter ignored Diana, his gaze caught by a figure making her way up through the bullpen to Peter's office.

"El, what are you doing here?" Peter asked as his wife entered the office, brushing by Diana as the special agent left to give them some privacy. "Don't you have to work today?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Hey, when you own the company, you can do practically anything you want," she leaned up to give Peter a quick peck on the cheek. "Plus, it was my lunch break. And I figured," she planted a large brown paper bag on his desk, "that you'd be too caught up in your work to have lunch."

Peter sighed. "Thanks, hon, but I just don't have time. I need to find a lead. It just doesn't make sense. Neal wouldn't leave like this."

"Are you sure?"

Peter looked at her. "Why would he leave when we're so close to figuring out the secrets of the music box, and who killed Kate?"

"Have you talked to June?"

Peter felt like an idiot. He'd completely forgotten about June, the woman who'd willing let Neal into her home. If there was anything sinister about Neal's disappearance, she'd be the one to know. It was a rookie move, skipping over her, and Peter wanted to rush down to the mansion that instant. But first, he realized as he caught the faint scent of homemade chop suey, he really was starving.

**-O-**

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	4. Curiosity Killed the Cat

**Pandora radio is awesome. Just sayin'. Anyways… sorry I haven't updated in a while! But here I am, with another chapter (: Things are gonna start heating up in this chapter**

**White Collar Quote of the Day: "Paranoia is a skill. The secret to longevity." ~ Mozzie**

**-O-**

**Chapter 4**

**Curiosity Killed the Cat**

The drive to Neal's apartment – June's mansion – was uneventful. As he drove, Peter reflected on what June might say. She'd probably be as clueless as the rest of them. Neal wouldn't have involved her in his escape plans. That was, of course, assuming he'd had any in the first place. If Neal _was_ in trouble, as Peter was beginning to suspect, maybe June would be able to provide some insight as to what had happened. Assuming she didn't think he was as paranoid as everyone else thought - that he was simply unwilling to accept the fact that Neal was not the person he thought he was.

Peter pulled up in front of the familiar mansion, taking a moment to collect his thoughts before making his way up the front steps and ringing the door bell. Somewhere deep within the mansion, the chime echoed, a deep, melodic tone announcing his presence. A moment later the door opened.

And Mozzie stood there.

"Mozzie?" Peter was shocked.

"Suit," Mozzie seemed less than surprised to see Peter. "Took you long enough," he muttered, shuffling away from the door, the tea sloshing in the tea cup clutched in his hand.

"What're you doing here?" Peter asked, suspicion rising in his voice.

"More than you," the little man snapped. "I was just asking June here-" he gestured to the older woman who had just entered the foyer. "-whether or not Neal said anything to her before he left. Because, unlike you, I believe that Neal may not have had a say in his disappearing act."

"See, that's where-"

"No, I don't want to hear any excuses. You suits are all the same, you simply refuse to see what's right in front of your eyes. A wise man once said-"

"Mozzie-"

"Don't interrupt me when I'm about to quote!"

"Mozzie!"

"What?"

Peter sighed. He would've wondered why Neal continued to be friends with the guy, if it hadn't been for Mozzie's blatantly obvious concern for his friend. "I know. I'm not so sure Neal left of his own accord, either."

"Oh," Mozzie's mood changed instantly. He set his tea cup down on a small platter. "Well, in that case, you should hear what June has to say. June?"

They both turned expectantly to the older woman. She hesitated. "I know I should've told you before, Peter," she began, "but I wasn't sure what to make of it myself."

"What?"

"A man visited here last night. He claimed to be an old acquaintance of Neal's. I let him up – Neal told me to – and went back downstairs. A few moments later, he came back down, followed by his friend. As they were leaving, Neal said something to me that struck me as odd."

"What did he say?" Peter asked impatiently.

"He said 'Tell Mozzie we'll finish our chess game later.'"

Peter furrowed his brow in confusion. Why leave that message if he had no intentions of returning? Peter began to wonder if his paranoia hadn't been just paranoia after all. "Could it have been a clue?"

"That's what I thought," Mozzie agreed. "Until I remembered. Neal used to receive cards in the mail. They were never marked."

"Well, what was on them?"

"Moves for a chess game."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Who were they from?"

"Matthew Keller."

Peter could officially cross paranoia off his list.

"Are you sure?" Peter asked. Mozzie nodded grimly. He turned to June. "And what happened after Neal said this?"

June fingered her scarf. "Well, I wasn't really watching very closely, but I did see them get into a large black van."

Sayonara, paranoia. Peter didn't waste anymore time with words, grabbing his cell phone and jogging to the door.

"Where-where are you going?" Mozzie called after him.

"To find that van."

-O-

The room was dark, darker than Neal remembered it being before he had fallen asleep. Hadn't there been a window somewhere? He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He hadn't felt tired. So how come he was waking up – when he should have been awake in the first place?

And then he remembered the needle. Keller had actually drugged him, that son of a bitch. How long he'd been out, he couldn't tell. But it couldn't have been that long, Keller wasn't one to wait around. Sitting there, in that chair, he didn't feel any panic. Sure, he was nervous. But Keller wasn't a violent guy – at least, not when he couldn't justify the violence (granted, his justifications were different from most people's). Part of Neal was urging for him to escape while he had the chance, but a larger part was curious as to what Keller wanted. Had Mozzie been there, he would have said something along the lines of "curiosity killed the cat."

He would have been right.

The door slammed open and a light Neal hadn't known was there flicked on, blinding him momentarily. A squealing noise told him that a curtain – presumably covering the window he had seen earlier – was being thrown open. As his vision adjusted, the smiling face of Matthew Keller came into focus.

"Morning, sunshine," he grinned. His British accent was more prominent – and more annoying – than ever. He made his way over to the far corner of the room. Neal hadn't noticed before, but a video camera stood on a tripod, aimed in his direction. That was what Keller was headed for. He toggled a switch, and a red light appeared on the camera. "Smile for the camera."

Neal glared at Keller, determined not to show how much more nervous the presence of the camera had made him. "So, how'd you manage it?"

"Same way you did, mate. Only, I did it better."

Neal rolled his eyes.

"You know, I've been keeping tabs on your little FBI buddies. Did you know that Peter thinks you've run away?" He chuckled as Neal's gaze flickered hesitantly. "Yeah, they all do. No one's going to find you here. Apparently they all think Neal Caffrey never changed, and was just waiting for an opportunity to run. It's the perfect crime, don't you think?"

Determined not to let Keller get through to him, Neal blinked, gaze steely. "Then what's the camera for?"

"Oh, that's the fun bit. But, alas, a good magician never reveals his secrets."

"Kate's dead," Neal said. He wasn't sure what brought it on, but he just felt like it needed to be said. Maybe Keller wouldn't be so set on beating him if he knew that the main thing they'd been competing over was gone.

He wasn't expecting the punch that landed squarely on his jaw, snapping his head back.

"I know," Keller seethed as Neal shook his head, spitting about blood.

Another punch landed in his abdomen before he'd had a chance to fully recover. The effect was instantaneous, and Neal folded over as much as his restraints would allow. Another punch followed, and another. Neal pressed his lips together. Keller was in a rage, and Neal's words had triggered it.

"It… was… your… fault!" Keller hissed in between punches. "You… and your stupid… music box!"

It was all Neal could do to keep himself from shouting out as each punch landed. His stomach, his jaw, his chest. His whole body had become a punching bag.

And then Keller sent a punch to his forehead. Neal's chair fell over with a bang. The breath was knocked out of him. The back of his head slammed against the concrete with a sickening crack. His back jolted against the hard metal of the chair.

Prison _had _changed Keller. Neal was really in trouble.

And he blacked out.

**-O-**

**O.O Poor Neal! He would appreciate reviews ^-^**


	5. Now You See Me

**I'm back! Sorry about the super late update, I had a major case of writer's block with this story, ugh. I know, excuses, excuses. I am back on track now though, and I know exactly what's going to happen, so no more waiting five months for an update!**

**Is anyone else bothered by how short the White Collar seasons are lately? I mean, there were only seven episodes last time, and now there are only ten. Anyways, enough of my complaining, and onto the very long awaited chapter!**

**-O-**

**Chapter 5**

**Now You See Me**

_"Where-where are you going?" Mozzie called after him._

_"To find that van."_

-O-

Peter had barely stepped foot inside the FBI office before he was shouting orders.

"Jones, Diana, my office. Now."

As Peter ascended the stairs to his office, closely flanked by a perplexed Jones and Diana, he tried to connect the dots. Neal had gone off the grid. He'd left behind his prized hat, and told June he'd be back later to play chess with Mozzie. Chess, which according to Mozzie pointed them toward Keller. /the same Matthew Keller who had escaped from prison the same morning that Neal had gone AWOL.

Things were not looking good.

As Peter explained, he watched as the two agents' mouths tugged downwards in identical frowns. They glanced at each other, then back at Peter. He'd finished recapping his investigation and conclusions, only to be met with silence as the two agents fiddled with their hands. Jones checked his watch awkwardly.

"What?" Peter asked, trying hard to conceal his growing impatience.

"Well, it's just that, um," Jones glanced at Diana.

"Neal's clever," Diana finished. "What if this is just another one of his cons?"

Peter blinked. He hadn't thought of that. But it just didn't make sense. If Neal really was trying to escape FBI custody, why leave all those clues? The hat, the unfinished painting, the chess set. Why go to such lengths when he could just run away? No, something was definitely wrong. He just needed Jones and Diana to see it.

"Neal is my informant. He's my responsibility. I'm not going to ignore a lead because of his history of… run-ins with the law. If he's in danger, I need to know. Jones, check the security footage from street cameras near June's place. See if you can track this van. Diana, keep checking up on Neal's old aliases. Come to me when you have something," he watched as they left the room, Jones muttering under his breath and Diana glancing back at Peter. They thought he was too close to the investigation, to Neal. That it was clouding his judgment.

He needed to talk to someone who would understand. He picked up his cell phone, fingers dialing the familiar number with ease.

"Hey, honey," El answered on the fourth ring.

"Elle," Peter glanced at his watch. "Let's go out for dinner."

-O-

Neal woke coughing and spluttering, vision blurring through the freezing water streaming down his face. His brain kicked into overdrive. Keller was drowning him! He coughed and spluttered again, heaving in a huge breath – he could breath. He wasn't drowning. He shook his head violently to clear the water out of his eyes and clenched his teeth to keep from shouting out. His entire face – no, his entire body – hurt. It was one giant ache, controlling his thoughts, his movements. Damn, Keller had gotten strong.

He tasted blood in his mouth. He hadn't even realized he had a split lip. And he must not have been out for that long, if it was still bleeding.

"You look like hell, you know that?" Keller grinned, setting down the now-empty bucket. Neal swallowed, hard. He was not going to let this psychopath get to him.

Keller held up a bottle of thick, skin-colored creamy liquid. "You know what this is?" Neal was only half listening. He was busy trying to assess the extent of his injuries and bruising. His conclusion – not good. His ribs felt bruised, thankfully not broken. When he flexed his right arm, his shoulder groaned. His sides ached, his back sent twinges of pain up his spine when he moved. His jaw clicked as he worked it, his forehead was one big bruise.

"Make up," Neal had to take several seconds to realize what Keller was talking about, to understand that he was gesturing to the bottle in his hand. "We can't have you looking like this for your date with Agent Burke, can we?" Keller patted Neal's cheek, smiling as Neal flinched away from his touch.

Neal raised his eyebrows. He didn't trust himself to speak.

"Agent Burke has gotten it into his head that you are not simply a fugitive," Keller laughed as though this was the funniest thing in the world. Neal swallowed again. "So you are going to prove him wrong."

"What makes you think I'd listen to you?" Neal allowed himself the smallest of smiles when his voice didn't break.

"I'll have snipers posted all along the street. One misstep, good-bye Neal Caffrey."

"They wouldn't shoot me."

"Oh, really? And why's that?" Keller looked like he already knew the answer.

"You want to beat me, Keller, not kill me. Not to mention there would be too many witnesses, including Peter." Neal allowed his smile to widen slightly.

"Precisely," Keller grinned. "You know, I've always liked that about you, Caffrey. Always one step ahead of everyone else. But you see, I am not 'everyone else'. Which is why the snipers have orders, if anything should go wrong, to fire. Not at you, you're right about that."

Neal clenched his jaw. His smile vanished. "Peter," he swallowed again, closing his eyes. Keller had figured that Neal wouldn't let Peter die. He was right.

-O-

Peter scanned the crowded restaurant through the windows as he made his way to the door. He was supposed to be meeting Elizabeth for dinner in five minutes. He was so preoccupied with thoughts about Neal and how Jones and Diana were doing, and what about Mozzie? – that he didn't notice the very man who had been haunting his thoughts until he bumped into him on the last step into the restaurant.

Peter blinked as he stared into the face of the man he'd been chasing around the city all day. Neal stared back, just as surprised. Peter opened his mouth to say, something, anything, even though he didn't know what – "You're under arrest", maybe? Because Neal most certainly wasn't in any kind of trouble.

He never got the chance to say anything. Neal twitched once, and that was Peter's only warning before the con took off, grabbing the door to the restaurant and yanking it open, darting inside. Peter swore under his breath and took off after him. Elizabeth, who had just stepped out of her own car, looked on in confusion.

"Neal!" Peter shouted as he dodged several people making their way to the exit.

Neal charged through a large group of people making their way toward their table and nearly knocked over a precariously balanced tray on a waitress's arm. Peter flicked his gaze ahead of Neal, towards where he was headed – the kitchens.

People must have been staring. You didn't cause a scene in a crowded, fancy restaurant like this and get away with it. Someone shouted, and Peter fumbled in his pocket for his badge. He didn't break his pace as he shouted, "FBI!"

Neal darted into the kitchen door as it swung closed, bringing his arm up and around and twisting his body to avoid running into another waiter. Several seconds later, Peter caught it and stormed inside. The kitchen was already a mess. Neal had knocked over a pan of some vegetable, and the water and food had spilled all over the floor. Metal clapped against metal as startled cooks dropped their tools. Peter flashed his badge again, shouting "Neal!" as he leapt over a fallen pot.

He reached the back door several seconds after Neal, and swung it open, only to watch a dark van go squealing around the corner.

"Damn it, Neal," Peter threw his hands up, clenching his jaw.

"Peter!" he whirled at the sound of his wife's voice. She stood in the doorway, clutching her purse and looking confused. "Hun, was that-"

"Neal."


	6. Neptune's Ocean

**This little plot-bunny came to me in the middle of the night, and it was mucho fun to write. *evil smile* Enjoy!**

**Also, just to clear this up, now that Keller has been in not one but four episodes, this story takes place sometime after his first ep and before the second. Because that's when I started writing it. **

**-O-**

**Chapter 6**

**Neptune's Ocean**

_"Peter!" he whirled at the sound of his wife's voice. She stood in the doorway, clutching her purse and looking confused. "Hun, was that-"_

_"Neal."_

-O-

"Something about this feels off," Peter repeated himself. He never had to repeat himself. But Diana and Jones just wouldn't listen.

And they still weren't. They both glanced at him when he spoke, but Peter didn't bother to listen to their answers. They would be the same as they had been for the past half-hour. He glanced out at the dark sky. If Neal was here-

If Neal was here they wouldn't be having this conversation.

Over and over again Peter replayed the scene in his mind. Walking up the steps to the restaurant. Bumping into Neal. Staring into his eyes, shocked beyond comprehension. Not recognizing the twitch as a warning that Neal was going to bolt. Hesitating a moment too long when Neal dashed away.

Peter should've reacted faster.

Walking up the stairs. Bumping into Neal. Staring in shock. The tell-tale twitch. Hesitating too long.

Why didn't Neal react faster?

Walking up. Bumping into him. Staring at him. The twitch. Hesitating, not pursuing.

Why the hell had Neal been there in the first place?

"Neal should've been halfway around the world," Peter looked up at the agents.

"Come again?" Jones asked.

"Why would Neal stick around this long?"

"Maybe he had some unfinished business," Diana suggested.

"No, I don't think so."

"So then what was it?"

Walking. Bumping. Staring. Twitch. Hesitating.

Twitch.

Peter watched the scene again in his mind. Right before Neal darted off… there. Neal grabbed his left sleeve in his right hand, pulling it up just a fraction of an inch. The movement was so subtle that Peter barely saw it. His skin was an angry, puffy red. A single bruise formed a ring around his wrist.

Rope burn.

Peter stood up. He'd been right. Neal was in serious trouble.

"Jones, have you found the van yet?"

"Yes and no. It was easy enough to find, harder to follow."

"What does that mean?"

"I lost it about a block from June's. Whoever was driving knew-"

"That we'd try to track him," This was looking more and more grim. More and more like Keller's work, as well. Only Keller would have sent Neal into the field like that to throw the FBI off the scent. "A black, unmarked van-"

"With no plates," Jones added.

"With no plates, speeding through the streets. Someone must have noticed it. Jones, see what you can find. Diana, try tracking the van from the restaurant,"" Peter turned to open the door for them. He was already thinking ahead to what his next step should be, and if Neal was okay, if his clue had cost him anything, what the hell Keller wanted. He didn't hear Diana speaking at first; when he did, he was only half listening.

"What about the paper trails?"

"You can forget about those. Neal isn't on the run."

-O-

Keller was waiting in the van when Neal dove into it, a smug expression on his face. Neal fought the urge to punch him right then and there. It didn't help that he could see Peter come flying out of the restaurant, intent on his fleeing target. And then the van door slammed in his face and they were moving.

"Well done, Caffrey," Keller commented dryly. Neal ignored him, pulling himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the side of the van. He was still reeling from his glimpse at freedom. If Keller hadn't posted those damn snipers, if Peter hadn't been a factor…

Neal looked up just in time to see Keller swinging the back end of a gun towards his head. He threw his hand up and caught his wrist, stopping him. He'd just gambled with Peter's life because of Keller. He wasn't about to be punished for it.

Surprisingly, Keller stopped and waited.

"That's really not necessary," said Neal. "I'm not going anywhere," he raised an eyebrow at the padlock on the van's door.

Keller lowered the gun. "Good, we're on the same page," he reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of glinting handcuffs. Seeing Neal's expression, he shrugged. "You _are_ Neal Caffrey," he fastened one end of the cuff to a handle in the wall. The other he slipped onto Neal's wrist.

"Yeah, and you're Matthew Keller, the man who shot his partner."

Keller tightened the cuff. The metal dug in around Neal's wrist, bruising and rubbing already inflamed skin, and he bit his lip. He would not give Keller the satisfaction of knowing he'd hurt him.

"You know what else I am, Caffrey?"

Neal waited. He didn't bother guessing, Keller wouldn't wait long to tell him.

"Your worst nightmare."

"I don't have nightmares," Neal shrugged. The van cut a sharp corner. The cuff bit into his skin, and Neal braced himself with his free hand. Keller watched all of this, a vaguely amused grin on his face. Neal gritted his teeth. This bastard would not get to him.

"That seems a bit far fetched, don't you think? I mean, if I had to watch Kate go up in flames, I think I'd have a hard time sleeping at night."

Neal swallowed hard, studying the floor of the van. _Keep it together._ Keller always knew exactly what to do to throw Neal – anyone, really – off. "Isn't that cliché?" Neal asked causally.

Keller shrugged. He'd picked up his gun, and was twirling it in his fingers absently. Nothing was every "absently" with Keller. He was threatening Neal. Neal hoped he shot himself. "I'm a chess player, Neal. We use logic, not imagination."

Neal had to bite his tongue to keep from retorting. Although Keller didn't know it, the gun was actually helping Neal. It was helping him keep his emotions and actions in check. And Keller thought he was being intimidating.

"Although I guess some imagination is necessary when torture is involved. Isn't that right, Neal?" Keller added as an afterthought.

"And here I thought you wanted to take me out for coffee," Neal answered. He allowed himself a small smile when his voice stayed cool and even. Torture? He hadn't known what to expect with Keller – obviously nothing good – although he'd imagined. He'd been imagining since the moment he'd woken up restrained to a chair. He'd tried to calm his overactive imagination, but he was a conman. Creativity had always been his specialty.

Torture had crossed his mind several times, but hearing it said out loud was a different matter. It confirmed it, made it a reality. Neal's stomach flipped against his will. Suddenly the van and the too-tight cuff with his now-bleeding wrist were looking very comfortable.

-O-

After a few quick words with June, Peter was stomping up the steps to Neal's apartment, key in hand. He swung the door open cautiously, peering inside.

"Mozzie?" he called. He wouldn't have put it past Neal's friend to come snooping in here for evidence or clues. In fact, he was hoping that Mozzie would be here. He needed to talk to him.

Nothing. The apartment was empty.

Peter stopped just over the threshold. His gaze swept over the scene that lay before him, everything exactly as it had been the first time he'd been up there, and yet completely different. The tracking anklet still sat on the table, still sliced neatly down the middle. It had been printed, but the only ones found were Neal's. That was to be expected, if Keller was behind this.

If Keller was behind this, they needed to find Neal. Peter needed to find him.

Peter traced a finger over the chess board. A light coating of dust clung to his fingertip. His eyes circled the room once more. He didn't know what he was looking for. Something, anything, that could act as a compass, pointing them in the right direction.

His heart nearly leaped out of his chest when he glanced toward the balcony. Backed by the setting sun, a shadowy figure stood on the other side of the glass, watching him. Peter's hand leapt for his gun before he realized – he knew that figure. Short, bald, glasses. Clutching a wine glass. Mozzie slid open the slider and stepped inside.

"You're late, suit."

"Damn it, Mozzie. You were there the whole time? What do you mean, I'm late?" Peter let his hand fall to his side.

"I expected you sooner. Any news about Neal?"

Peter watched as the man took a seat at the table and gestured for Peter to do the same. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Peter wondered if this was the first time he'd sat at the same table as an FBI agent. "Well, he's not gone of his own free will. There were rope burns on his wrist today. I was supposed to meet El for dinner, he was there. I think Keller orchestrated the whole thing."

"Okay," Mozzie looked at him in apparent confusion. "Any _new_ news?"

Peter sighed. Of course Mozzie already knew. How he knew, Peter wasn't about to ask. "Why don't you tell me?" he asked instead. This was why he had been looking for him. Mozzie had contacts all over the place.

Mozzie sighed, taking a long sip from his wine glass. When he set it back down, his expression was grim. "Nothing."

-O-

Neal was surprised when Keller, rather than securing his wrists to the chair with rope like he had before, used the same set of handcuffs he'd used in the van. Once again, he tightened them so that they pinched and dug at Neal's skin. Keller should have been more cautious, he knew that Neal was a master lock-picker. Although he probably also knew that Neal didn't currently have anything to pick the locks with.

Neal watched as Keller left the room, slamming the door behind him. As soon as it closed, Neal relaxed his features. He took several shaky breaths. The back of the chair was digging into his spine, and he shifted to the other side. He winced as the cuff tugged against his raw skin.

There was no telling when Keller would be back. It could be a minute, it could be several days. Knowing Keller, Neal figured that he'd wait just long enough for the concept of torture to sink in, letting that ugly thought stew in his mind just long enough to build the suspense. And there was nothing Neal could do but wait.

He gazed at the camera with its red blinking light. Was Keller recording him for his own sick pleasure? It seemed like something he would do. Neal had taken an enormous risk back at the restaurant. Even that tiny movement, that tiny gesture to his bruised and puffy wrist, could have cost Peter his life. He had been nearly unable to hold back a sigh of relief when no red dot appeared on the agent's forehead. Neal desperately hoped that Peter had understood.

Neal tore his gaze from the camera, watching instead as red blood, his blood, oozed out from under the cuff. There was no way he was getting out of this, not without help. That had probably been his last chance to get a message out to Peter, and if he hadn't gotten it, if he was still chasing a ghost of a fugitive…

The door burst open and Keller lumbered inside, awkwardly towing a large folding table behind him. He propped it up against the wall and slid the camera with its stand backwards several feet. With a smug glance in Neal's direction he unfolded the table so that it was between Neal and the camera. Without a word, he departed again.

Neal eyed the table. No doubt Keller had intended for it to scare him, at the very least make him nervous. Which it did in plenty. He tried not to guess what it might be for, but he couldn't help himself. As a table, it was harmless. But with whatever Keller was going to fetch, it was a device meant only for one purpose: to hurt Neal.

When Keller returned a minute later, he carried a large bucket. Water sloshed out over the sides, leaving a slippery trail in its wake. A large hand towel was slung over Keller's shoulder, and a gun was fitted casually in the waistband of his pants. The gun he withdrew now as he placed the bucket by the table and walked over to Neal.

"Tell me, Neal, have you ever heard of the term 'waterboarding'?" asked Keller.

Neal swallowed. Of course he had. "Can't you give it one night's rest, Keller?" he asked.

"Cheer up, Neal. This'll be fun," Keller un-cuffed him and gestured for him to stand up. For a moment, Neal didn't move. He couldn't. He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand up to Keller and pretend like he wasn't afraid, like he didn't have anything to lose, like Keller was just some bully on the playground.

Keller was going to kill him.

Keller grabbed Neal's wrist, making Neal wince, and hauled him from the chair. Neal let out a muffled grunt of pain.

"Waterboarding," Keller continued as he led Neal to the table, gun pressing into his rib cage. "was originally used during the Spanish Inquisition, did you know that?" Neal tried to block out the sound of Keller's voice. He couldn't listen to this. "They'd put a cloth over a man's face and pour water on it, creating the sensation of drowning," Neal focused on the pain in his wrist. He tried not to notice as Keller pushed him onto his back on the table, but he was all too aware of the water sloshing in the bucket underneath him. "Ingenious, if you ask me," Keller brought Neal's hands over their respective sides of the table and handcuffed them underneath the table. Neal bit back a gasp of pain as he dug his skin into the metal. Anything, any distraction… "I hear it can cause damage to your brain, make your mind go all funny. If you don't die, that is."

Neal worked on easing the tension from his body, letting his limbs go limp as Keller fastened Neal's legs to the table with rope. The more tense he was, the worse Keller could hurt him. He stared at the ceiling, at the slopes and bumps and indents.

The world went dark. Dry, itchy fabric slid against Neal's face, over his lips, nose, and eyes. He was breathing through his mouth now. He couldn't do this. His heart thumped in his chest. Keller would hear it, Keller would know he was afraid. Keller be damned, Neal didn't care what that man knew.

"You ready, Neal?"

Neal closed his eyes. No, no he wasn't ready.

Keller didn't care.

There was a second of increased pressure, and suddenly the cloth clung to his face, sectioning off any outside air. Neal breathed in, and his nose burned as water was sucked down it. Again he tried to breath through his nose, again the water beat the air.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._ Neal tried to draw in a breath through his mouth and swallowed water. He tried again, spewing out the water and sucking down a pinch of oxygen. He sucked in more water, even less oxygen. On his next breath the cloth was sucked down with the water, and there was no more oxygen.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._ He tried holding his breath, if only to stop the burning. Soon he was trying to breathe again, his nose sucking in the non-existent air and all-too existent water. Holding his breath had been a bad idea. His mind was trying to make up for the lack of oxygen. He involuntarily took several huge breaths. Water streamed into his lungs, burning them. His lungs were on fire.

_Thump-thump. Thump. _Neal gagged and gagged again. Keller hadn't stopped pouring the water. Why wouldn't he stop? Neal struggled against his restraints. He shook his head wildly, trying to throw off the cloth. His hands slammed against the underside of the table, his feet kicked at air.

_Thump-thump. _He was going through all the motions of breathing now. Water poured into his open mouth and nose. He barely felt it. His lungs screamed for relief, his brain screamed for oxygen. His mind screamed for it to stop. His limbs felt leaden. His head was pounding, his heart beating erratically.

_Thump._ Neal's chest stopped heaving. His brain stopped comprehending thought. His body stopped struggling.

Sudden bright lights flashed before him, and then he was plunged into darkness.


	7. We Fall Together

**First of all, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to all of the fallen heroes of 9/11. If anyone's in the mood, you should go listen to Darryl Worely's "Have You Forgotten". Amazing song. 3USA**

**In other news, I made an official twitter account. It'd be super awesome if you'd follow me, and if you do I will follow back. My username is flockroxmysox (no "the" at the beginning, it was too long), and by following you'll be able to receive exclusive info, including sneak peaks at upcoming chapters and stories, as well as updates regarding my stories. **

**And now that the advertising portion is over, let's get to the story!**

**-O-**

**Chapter 7**

**We Fall Together**

Neal woke coughing. His chest heaved, lungs trying to rid themselves of water. The back of his throat burned – there was no water for his body to reject. He breathed in through his mouth, half expecting water to come flooding through again.

Nothing. He could breathe again.

His head was pounding, his brain attacking his skull. He registered light, bright light. A silhouette of a head appeared over his head.

Neal blinked. His vision was all wrong. He felt sick.

The silhouette spoke, and even though Neal didn't have the strength to focus on what it was saying, even though he felt like he was going to pass out, even though his brain screamed for more oxygen, moremoremore, he knew that voice.

Keller.

Neal wanted to puke.

"-die on me. I thought I'd have to give you mouth-to-mouth. That would have been interesting, don't you think, Neal?"

Neal coughed again, instinctively turning on his side. The cuffs, linking his wrists under the table, stopped him.

The door clicked, and somewhere in the back of his brain, it registered to Neal that Keller had left. Keller had left, for who knew how long, leaving Neal restrained on his back on the table and feeling vulnerable. When Keller came back – if he came back, because who was to say he wouldn't just leave Neal there to die? – what would he bring with him? Another torture device?

Neal forced his muscles to relax, forced his breathing to even. If Keller was coming back, he needed to gain his strength. He could at least try.

Water droplets, mixed with sweat from his forehead, trickled down his cheeks. He gritted his teeth to stop from wincing every time he felt the familiar tickle, too close to his nose or mouth. His heart still beat furiously inside his chest, and he had a hard time catching his breath. _The towel was gone_. He had to keep reminding himself. The torture of waiting, of being helpless to his fear, was almost as bad as the waterboarding.

This was what Keller had planned, Neal realized after several minutes – or had it been several hours? – passed by with no sign of Keller returning. He was going to let Neal wait. Wait and worry over what was coming next. He was going to let Neal work himself up into a state of petrified fear, let his imagination stew for a while.

Neal's veins flooded with warmth. He was angry, now. He welcomed the anger, let it simmer in his mind, vaporizing all of the cold fear. His heart beat stronger now, steadier. It was no longer the quick, panicked rhythm of fear. Neal allowed himself a small smile. Keller couldn't beat him. Not this way.

-O-

Peter walked into the FBI offices dripping wet, an hour late, and fuming. His alarm hadn't gone off, his wife had neglected to pick up the dry cleaning, his car battery had died, and it was pouring outside. He was in no mood hear that Diana had lost the van again – unfortunately, that didn't stop it from being true.

"Damn it!" Peter threw his wet jacket onto the back of his chair rather forcefully. They had no other leads. Nothing. Keller had really outdone himself this time. Would they ever find Neal, or would they just be wasting time? No. Peter owed it to Neal to find him. To save him. What if, in all that time he'd been focusing on a fugitive case, he'd let some trail, some other lead grow cold? He turned to Diana. "Watch it again."

"But, boss-"

"Now."

Defeated, Diana left. Peter sank into his chair. Out of habit and a hopeless wish, he pulled up Neal's tracking anklet data. Of course, it was still off. In fact, it was sitting right there on Peter's desk. He glanced at it now. He'd been stupid. An idiot. If Neal had wanted to run, he'd have done it when he was already off-anklet. He should have seen that.

Peter pulled up the tracking history. Nothing unusual. Most of the stops were either at the office or at Neal's own apartment. The park, Main Street, a coffee shop. Nothing.

Peter pulled up a list of all the vacant or foreclosed homes, and empty warehouses in the area. Assuming Neal was still in the area. 93 total. Too many to search, with too little manpower and not nearly enough evidence to acquire it.

Peter pulled up Keller's criminal file.

-O-

"Good morning, Neal,"

Neal didn't want to wake up. Not to that voice.

He opened his eyes. Keller's smirking face filled his vision. And then it disappeared. Two seconds later, cool air breezed over his oozing wrists. He shot up, fist seeking Keller's face. He hadn't been thinking – he'd just needed something to do, some way to take out his anger – and Keller had been prepared. He responded immediately, his gun resting against Neal's temple.

"Don't test my patience, Caffrey. We both know what happens when I get agitated," the gun left his temple, and Keller moved down the table to release Neal's ankles. Neal glanced at the chair, where he was no doubt headed again. He craned his neck to look at the door, slightly ajar. Keller caught the movement, and shook his head, waving his gun in the air as a silent warning.

Once Neal was secured to the chair – cuffs once again too tight against his skin – Keller flipped on the camera. Neal stared at the red light.

"I'm on a tight schedule here, so I won't procrastinate," Keller waited until Neal was looking at him before continuing. "I'll bet you didn't know that the number one form of torture is sleep-deprivation. Kind of anticlimactic, don't you think? I was hoping for something big, guns or chainsaws, you know? Sleep is simple. But facts don't lie,"

Neal shrugged. Keller's fist swung into his nose. There was a snap, louder than anything Neal had heard before, and he reeled into the back of the chair. Blood flooded from his nose. White-hot pain burned his face.

"Welcome to hell," Keller grinned, and slammed his fist into Neal's stomach.

-O-

The door to Peter's office slammed open. Peter looked up, about to take out his frustrations on whoever had let it bang against the wall, but one look at Jones's face and he closed his mouth.

"Peter, you need to see this. Diana found something."

Peter was out of his chair in seconds, following the agent down the steps to Diana's desk.

"What do you have for me, Diana?"

Diana typed hurriedly on her keyboard, bringing up a panel of footage from different security cameras.

"This is the footage of the van, you can see it here," Diana traced her finger along the screen, as the van leapt from one frame to another. Suddenly, it disappeared. Diana paused the footage. "This is where I lost it."

"And?" Peter gritted his teeth. Diana couldn't have brought him down here just to tell him that she'd lost Keller again.

Diana smirked. "Keller's good, but I'm better." She pointed to the next panel of footage. "Watch here," she played it. And paused it again. "A gray Honda Civic pulled out of the same alley that Keller pulled into, five minutes before."

Peter nearly laughed. They'd found another lead, Keller had slipped up. "Diana, thank you. I need-"

"Already sent some agents down to check it out, boss," Diana confirmed.

"Good. Can you zoom in on the license plate?"

Diana frowned, and Peter's spirits began to fall. "The image is too grainy. There's nothing to see. But I can follow the car." She resumed the footage, and all three agents watched as it disappeared from one panel, only to show up in another several seconds later. Finally, it pulled into an apartment complex.

"Diana, can you get the address?"

"Already got it."

-O-

Neal hurt. Everywhere. All he wanted to do was sleep. His body was exhausted from the punishment. Keller hadn't allowed him more than a half hour's rest all day. Neal didn't even want to know what his face looked like.

But he wasn't done, not yet. Keller wasn't going to win that easily. Anger still pulsed through his veins, though it was weakened now. He kept staring at the red light shining on the camera. It gave him something to focus on each time Keller returned, but it also seemed to somehow penetrate through his eyelids every time he closed his eyes, pushing sleep farther and farther away.

At the moment he was staring off into space, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat and ignore his aching face and chest. What was Peter doing right now? He had to have figured out he hadn't run by now. Neal hoped. If he hadn't… Neal gritted his teeth. Hell, he was in trouble.

The door opened. Neal took a breath, steeling himself. Keller didn't even bother with words most of the time, which was what bothered him the most. Keller always had something to say. Was he trying to intimidate Neal? It wasn't working.

This time was no different. Keller walked over, grabbed a fistful of Neal's hair in one hand, pulled his head up, and sliced the side of his cheek with a knife Neal hadn't noticed – until now. Blood trickled down Neal's cheek onto his shirt. It was a white button-down shirt – although it was probably more red than white now. The cut didn't feel deep, but that didn't stop it from stinging.

"I thought you didn't need knives," Neal cleared his throat – even that hurt, but he hated how weak and raspy his voice sounded.

"What, I'm not allowed to be creative?" Keller smirked. His fist connected with Neal's chest. Several loud cracks were immediately followed by the most intense, acute pain Neal had felt yet. He gasped – even that hurt. The bastard had cracked his ribs. "Ouch, that sounded like it hurt. You okay, Caffrey?" He ended his question with a kick to Neal's hipbone.

"You… are a… monster… Keller," Neal gasped through the pain. "Kate… was… right... to hate… you."

Keller had been walking towards the door. Now, he drew his gun from his waistband in one fluid moment and pointed it at Neal. Neal had barely registered the sound of gunfire before the bullet ripped into his shoulder. Neal yelled, the pain of his cracked ribs forgotten. He strained against his restraints automatically, staring at the already-bloody wound in his shoulder. He turned to gape at Keller.

Keller wasn't smiling, or smirking, or anything even related. He was angry, fuming, but his voice was so deadly calm it would have made Neal shiver if he hadn't been in so much pain. "She didn't die because of _me_."

The door slammed closed.

-O-

"FBI!" Peter was the first one in the door of the apartment, shouting out the moment he stepped foot inside. Behind him followed an army of agents, guns at the ready. There was no way Keller was getting away from them now. They had him. Peter prayed they still had Neal, too.

"Clear!" Peter rounded the corner, gun first.

And froze.

Sitting around a large table in what appeared to be the kitchen was a family of four – a mother, father, and two young boys. All of them had looks of horror plastered on their faces as they took in the agents with guns. Pointed at them.

"Damn it!" Peter slammed his fist against the wall. That bastard had slipped through their fingers. _Again_. Neal wasn't here. "Damn it!"

Neal wasn't there.


	8. Gone

**Chapter 8**

**Gone**

Pain. Fire. Searing, licking. Screaming.

Neal moaned. His shoulder. It hurt. His shoulder _hurt_. He'd been _shot_. By Keller.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered the dark liquid spilling out of the gaping hole in his shoulder as blood. Lots of it. He knew it had to stop, what would happen if it didn't. But it _hurt_. Like a fireball had just exploded in his shoulder. A rippling, searing, merciless pain that crept up Neal's shoulder, down to his wrists, rendered him paralyzed.

He'd thought his wrists were bad. He'd thought the cracked ribs had been bad. The bruises, the slash on his cheek, his throbbing head – he'd thought those had hurt.

No. They were like bee stings compared to this. The bees were dead. The damage had been done, they couldn't hurt him anymore. But Keller could come back. The gun wasn't dead.

But why would Keller do this now? It didn't seem right. Somewhere, somehow, Neal knew this. He knew that Keller wasn't done with him yet. That Keller didn't want him dead yet.

The blood stained his white shirt red and began pooling on the floor.

Where the hell was Peter?

The door opened. Keller walked over, strips of gauze and other medical supplies loading down his arms. He'd been prepared. That scared Neal. What else was he prepared for?

He winced as Keller examined his shoulder. Looking to see if there was an exit wound. There wasn't. Neal could feel the bullet, lodged in his shoulder. Keller tied off his shoulder with a strip of gauze, used the rest to wrap around the hole. Red splotches appeared almost immediately.

At that moment, Neal's vision swam. His head buzzed, felt heavy, dizzy. Keller said something, but Neal couldn't make sense of it.

Pain flared from his shoulder, pulsing with the beat of his heart. His breath kept catching in his throat. Blood dripped from the bandage to the floor.

And then there was nothing.

-O-

Peter was upset. Very upset. Since he'd returned to the office, he'd said a few terse words to Elizabeth over the phone, taken his jacket off and turned on the fan, and stared at the computer screen, watching and re-watching the video footage from the security cameras. They'd lost this son of a bitch again. _Again. _They'd lost Neal again.

Keller had better watch his back.

Agents had been deployed around the neighborhood, knocking on doors and asking questions that wouldn't get them anywhere. It did no good. Keller wouldn't be there. He was just too damn smart.

Peter had caught Neal. Twice. He could catch Keller.

Couldn't he?

Sound blared, and Peter jumped. The wall-mounted TV had clicked on. He must have hit the remote's power button with his arm. He reached for the remote to turn it off, and stopped. It was a news story.

About Neal.

Peter's expression hardened. Reporters were no good. Even when they had the full story, they tended to botch things up, and these reporters didn't even have that. All they knew was that a man convicted of forgery was AWOL.

This story was no different from the others. Neal Caffrey, a wanted man, dangerous, potentially armed (where had they gotten that bit? Neal hated guns). Slipped away from his bumbling, idiotic handler in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. Funny how they forgot to mention that the handler had also been the one to _catch_ Caffrey. Twice.

The reporter's face was replaced with a mug shot of Caffrey. Peter smirked when he saw that picture, letting a small chuckle escape his lips. He remembered a conversation he'd had with Neal in passing, a remark that had made Peter chuckle at the time, and did so now.

"_I never liked this picture," Neal remarked, staring at the paper Peter was holding"_

"_It's not that bad," Peter tried to be optimistic. Neal played along._

"_It's better than my driver's license."_

_Peter considered this for a moment, and then turned to Neal, smirking. "Which one? You have several." Neal glared at him. Peter grinned. "Okay, one crime at a time."_

"That's it for today's 3 o'clock. Don't forget to catch the game tonight, the weather-"

Peter clicked off the TV.

He turned back to the computer, then stopped. He picked up Neal's phone – it had been sitting on his desk since he'd come back from Neal's apartment the first time. He'd been meaning to look through it, but that had been before he'd known the truth. He couldn't bring himself to invade Neal's privacy, knowing what he was going through. He had looked far enough to know that there had been no calls or texts that stood out – from unknown numbers. But nothing more.

Now, he thumbed through Neal's contact list until he found the one he was looking for.

Mozzie picked up on the second ring.

"Neal?" He sounded relieved, panicked, angry, and confused all in that one word. Peter shook his head.

"It's Peter, Mozzie."

Silence. Then, "Oh."

"Oh? That's all you're going to say?"

"Well, did you find Neal?"

"No."

"Then yes, I have nothing else to say."

Peter stopped. He'd heard this play before. Mozzie was being short, acting annoyed – although he probably was annoyed, he _was_ talking to a suit - but it was a front. Peter didn't know Mozzie that well, but he knew Neal, and he knew the friendship the two shared. Mozzie was worried. All the more reason to continue the one-sided conversation.

"Mozzie, I need to know anything you know about Keller. Safe houses, habits, anything that could help."

Mozzie sighed. He'd seen this coming. "I wondered what was taking you so long. Keller never used a hideout more than once. 'The longer you stay in one place, the greater your chance of disillusionment'."

"Yeah, or getting caught," Peter frowned.

"Sorry I couldn't be of greater assistance."

Peter wasn't a fool. He knew that Mozzie had to be looking into this, maybe even more vigorously than the FBI. "If you find something useful, you'll tell us?"

"If you find Neal, you'll tell me?" Mozzie retorted. He hung up.

-O-

Neal was yanked into wakefulness with the stinging slap of Keller's palm connecting with the side of his face. His head rolled with the force of it. He blinked his eyes open, and the pain in his shoulder registered almost immediately. He glanced down. The gauze had obviously been replaced – this one didn't have nearly enough blood on it to be the original. The bleeding had stopped, for the most part. A good thing? Neal wasn't sure.

"How're you feeling, Caffrey?" Keller asked. He was smirking.

"Like I just took a bullet," Neal answered. Keller chuckled, and Neal watched him, waiting. Something was coming.

"You're one tough guy, you know that?" Keller pulled up a chair Neal hadn't noticed before, taking a seat opposite him.

Neal cracked a smile. It wasn't a real smile, it wasn't even one of his famous smiles. It was merely a tool to show Keller that he hadn't won. Not yet. Neal shook his head. "Tougher than you?"

Keller shrugged. "Maybe. On a good day." Neal got the message. Today was not a good day.

Neal was silent for a moment. He had to catch his breath. The ribs, the gunshot wound were making it hard to talk. But he had to. He had to keep Keller talking. "Peter will catch you," Neal tried to close his ears to the sound of his voice. It was weak, too weak, and he hated it.

Keller chuckled. "See, that's the thing. He won't. Because I already have his king."

Neal couldn't respond. Tired, he was so tired.

"I want to show you something, Neal," Keller opened a laptop that had been resting on his lap. Neal hadn't noticed it. What else hadn't he noticed?

But he stopped wondering. Stopped hurting. Stopped… stopped time as he saw what Keller had pulled up on the screen. Time stopped. It was him. And Kate. On the tarmac. The plane was still one piece in the background. And now Kate started walking towards it. Neal wanted to close his eyes.

"No," he breathed. Kate kept walking. "Kate, no…" Neal didn't even notice Peter's figure appear on the screen, distracting that Neal. Kate boarded the plane. The image was grainy, security camera footage, but it didn't matter. Neal could still remember it.

And then the plane exploded. There was no sound. The footage was silent. Just… one second a plane, the next a ball of fire.

"No!" Neal strained against his restraints. "No! Kate!" On the screen, tiny Neal screamed with him. "Kate!" Neal's voice tore from his throat, raw and sobbing. "Kate!"

Keller closed the laptop. Walked out of the room. The door shut behind him.

Neal's head fell against his chest. He pulled limply against the handcuffs, once. And stopped. And gave up.

-O-

The ceiling was white. Dazzlingly white, like snow. Or a cloud. Or paint.

Peter shook his head. He'd been lying in bed for close to ten minutes, lost in thought. It was the morning of the fifth day. Day five since Neal's disappearance. And nothing. They had nothing. Soon he would be given the order to give up. To move on to other cases, cases that had taken top priority away from Neal. It was the fifth day, and there had been no ransom. But Peter wasn't surprised. Keller wouldn't have wanted a ransom.

Breakfast was quiet that morning. Elizabeth knew he needed his space. But she couldn't take it any more. They were walking out the door when she finally spoke.

"Hey, you're Peter Burke. You've caught Neal twice already."

Peter didn't look at her as he climbed into his car. "This time's different."

The moment he stepped into the bullpen at the offices, he knew something had changed. There was an anxious buzz in the atmosphere, people stared as he walked by.

"Peter," Jones walked up to him as he climbed the short set of stairs to his office. He was followed closely by Diana. "This came this morning."

He held up a package. Standard yellow wrapping, small, with no return address. And it was addressed only to "Burke".

**-O-**

**O.O any guesses as to what's in the package? **


	9. Red Light

"**Wow. One week and I'm already updating again. Must be at a good part or something."**

**That was how I was going to start off my AN… until we lost power. For five days. But I'm back now! **

**With regards to NaNoWriMo: Yes, I am participating. No, that does not mean I will stop updating this story. The more words, the better! **

**And kudos to those of you who correctly guessed what was in the package – although I guess it wasn't much of a challenge because everyone who guessed got it :p**

**-O-**

**Chapter 9**

**Red Light**

"Agent Peter Burke."

That was how the video started. The video in the package. The package had arrived early that morning. A cloaked figure – according to the security camera footage – had left it with the front desk. The _conveniently empty_ front desk.

"Let's play a game of chess."

It was at that point that Keller had moved away from the camera screen to reveal an unconscious Neal, bound to a chair and looking like he as about to start drooling. And that was the moment Peter had called Mozzie.

"_Tell me you found Neal."_

Peter had looked up at the screen then, at the frozen image of Neal's limp figure. "_No. Well, not exactly. Mozzie, you need to see this."_

"_Not if I have to come down there."_

"_Keller sent us video footage of Neal."_

"_I'm on my way." _ A pause. _"BUT, I want full immunity." _

Peter opened his mouth to argue, and stopped. Now was not the time. _"Fine."_

Now Mozzie stood behind Peter, staring up at the screen. They – Peter, Mozzie, Diana, and Jones – were all gathered around the conference table. None of them were sitting.

"I'm about to beat Neal. So I figured, why not add you to the list? So here's how it's going to work. I show you exactly what I do to Neal, and you try your best to hunt me down and save your pal over there. You won't find me. But I figure you'll try anyway. I mean, you are a suit."

"That is one cocky bastard," Diana muttered.

The video cut out. Silence flooded the conference room as everyone processed what they had just heard. Jones was the first to speak.

"What's he going to do to Neal?"

"Nothing good," Mozzie answered automatically. He immediately pressed his lips together and focused his gaze on the black screen, as if he hadn't said a word.

"And who is this?" Jones directed his next question solely at Peter.

Peter glanced at Mozzie, his mouth poised to answer the question, when the video suddenly flickered back on. All heads snapped toward the screen.

"_Smile for the camera,"_ it was Keller. The tone in his voice didn't help to quell Peter's rising urge to punch the man in the face.

Neal was awake. Awake and glaring, which was a good sign. _"So, how'd you manage it?"_

"_Same way you did. Only, I did it better."_

Peter cracked a smile as, on the screen, Neal rolled his eyes. That was his Neal, unfazed in the face of danger.

"_You know, I've been keeping tabs on your little FBI buddies. Did you know that Peter thinks you've run away?"_ Peter's half-smile faded. Maybe it had been true then, but did Neal still believe it now?

"_Kate's dead."_

The moment those words left Neal's mouth, Keller was on him. The first punch landed squarely on his jaw. Peter flinched away from the screen; behind him Mozzie let out a stifled gasp as Neal's head snapped back. More punches followed it, and with each one Neal's detached demeanor slowly faded until he was pressing his lips together in an effort to remain silent. Peter's hands curled into fists at his side. Mozzie was muttering something under his breath.

Keller was saying something. Whatever it was, it was so rage-induced that it was indecipherable. He kept punching, punching, punching. Neal was barely hanging on to his cool – but he was slipping. More punches, and more, and more.

How long had it been? Thirty seconds? More like five minutes. Peter had had enough. He reached for the remote, only to find that Mozzie had already snagged it and was searching for the right button.

And then there was a bang and Neal's chair fell over.

There was barely time for the agents to recoil from the loud noise before the screen blacked out – and blinked back on to a new scene.

"_You look like hell, you know that?"_

Keller was right about that. Neal had a split lip, a nasty bruise was forming under his swollen eye, and blood still trickled from his nose. And he was soaking wet.

"_You know what this is?"_ Keller held up a bottle of thick, skin-colored creamy liquid. Peter did. And he knew what was coming. _"Make up. We can't have you looking like this for your date with Agent Bruke, can we?"_

Keller patted Neal's cheek. Neal flinched away, and Peter felt his fists harden. That smug bastard! Behind him, Mozzie made a gagging noise.

"_Agent Burke has gotten it into his head that you are not simply a fugitive. So, you are going to prove him wrong."_

"_What makes you think I'd listen to you?"_ Peter was surprised to hear how steady Neal's voice was. He shouldn't have been, he should have expected it, but he hadn't and he was.

"_I'll have snipers posted all along the street. One misstep, good-bye Neal Caffrey."_

"_They wouldn't shoot me."_

"_Oh, really? And why's that?"_

"_You want to beat me, Keller, not kill me. Not to mention there would be too many witnesses, including Peter."_

"_Precisely. You know, I've always liked that about you, Caffrey. Always one step ahead of everyone else. Which is why the snipers have orders, if anything should go wrong, to fire. Not at you, you are right about that."_

Peter blinked. The snipers made sense, but who…?

"_Peter."_

Peter's stomach dropped. How could he have had a target on his back, and not have realized it? That day in the restaurant… Neal had been risking much more than Peter had realized.

The scene changed.

Neal was now handcuffed to the chair. Blood was seeping out from under the cuffs. A flicker of hope ignited in Peter's chest – Neal could pick the locks, free himself. But Keller wasn't an idiot. He'd have made sure that wouldn't happen.

The bruises on Neal's face had turned from an angry red to deep purple, blending with the circles under his eyes. He looked wary, and his eyes kept searching the room like he was looking for something. Waiting for someone?

Suddenly Keller was there, awkwardly placing a large folding table on the floor and kneeling down to unfold the legs.

And then he disappeared. Neal was staring at the table uncertainly, and once his gaze flicked to the camera and back.

Keller returned with a large bucket. He was carrying it as though it was filled with something heavy, and when he set it on the ground water sloshed out over the side. Keller had a hand towel slung over one shoulder, which was odd, but it didn't demand as much attention as the gun in his hand.

"_Tell me, Neal, have you ever heard of the term 'waterboarding'?"_

Behind him, Mozzie drew in a sharp breath. Peter pressed his lips together to stop himself from doing the same. Keller was rapidly escalating from Peter's punching bag to his shooting target. Diana saw the look in his eyes.

"Maybe he's just trying to scare Neal. He won't actually do it."

"You don't know Keller," Mozzie responded before Peter could.

Jones shot him a look. "Again, who is this guy?"

"A friend of Neal's," Mozzie answered when Peter didn't.

"_I hear it can cause damage to your brain, make your mind go all funny. If you don't die, that is."_

Neal was already lying on his back on the table, his wrists restrained underneath it. As Keller spoke, he moved to Neal's feet and wound a rope around those as well. Every muscle in Peter's body tensed. He wouldn't do it. Keller wouldn't actually do this. It had to be a bluff, something to scare Neal like Diana had suggested. He wouldn't –

Keller draped the cloth over Neal's face.

"_You ready, Neal?" _

There was no answer. Peter had no idea what Neal was feeling – sheer terror? His chest moved up and down, the cloth on his face pulled in to his nose and out again, as he took several deep breaths. Peter's nails dug into his palms.

Keller dipped a drinking cup into the bucket of water, brought it up, up… and poured it onto Neal's face.

The washcloth stuck to his face immediately, turning dark with the water. Neal's whole demeanor changed, his body grew rigid. Peter tried to focus on the up-and-down motion of Neal's chest. This feeling of utter helplessness, that they could only watch, sent shockwaves in his brain. This had already been done to Neal, and they hadn't known. Hadn't done anything.

Neal's chest stopped moving. For ten seconds, there was no movement. Peter counted. On the eleventh second, both Peter and Neal let out their held breaths.

The washcloth jumped a little as Neal gagged. Peter wanted to gag, too. Keller kept refilling that damned cup, kept pouring it on that damned washcloth. He didn't even look bothered. He looked… _pleased._ Neal was trashing on the table now, his arms and legs pulling against their restraints, his head tossing as he tried to throw off the washcloth.

Mozzie mumbled something behind him, but Peter was too distracted to understand what he was saying.

And then Neal stopped struggling. His legs flopped against the table, his arms hung at the sides.

Keller calmly placed the cup in the bucket, removed the washcloth, and walked over and turned the camera off.

And then it was on again.

"_I'll bet you didn't know that the number one form of torture is sleep deprivation."_

Neal was once again secured to the chair with the handcuffs. His shirt still stuck to his body, but whether it was from water or sweat Peter didn't know. He looked utterly exhausted. The skin around his wrists, around the handcuffs, was red and puffy. He wasn't looking at Keller, he was staring right into the camera. And in his eyes, Peter saw defeat. He wasn't gone yet, the defeat hadn't come yet, but it was there. Lurking, waiting.

Neal shrugged. No, he was not gone yet. This time, Peter half-expected the punch that went right to Neal's nose. There was an instant flood of blood. No way that nose wasn't broken.

"_Welcome to hell,"_ Keller said. And then he slammed his fist into Neal's stomach.

But that wasn't the last of it. After that beating, the camera kept flicking between scenes. Violent, stomach-dropping scenes of Keller waling away on Neal. Sometimes it would be just Neal, staring at the camera vacantly.

And then Keller had a knife, which he used to slit Neal's cheek. Neal muttered something, his voice so rasping and weak that Peter couldn't make out the words.

And that was when Keller shot him.

Peter sank into his chair. Mozzie wasn't far behind him. They all stared up at the black screen, willing it to come back on. To prove that Neal was still fighting.

"Come on, Neal," Peter muttered.

Two minutes went by. Then three. Peter kept track on his watch. The screen stayed black. Mozzie took a deep, shaking breath. Peter's eyes didn't stray from the screen.

Four minutes.

Five.

The screen winked back to life.

Peter bit his lip to stop a shout of relief. Mozzie, however, didn't restrain himself. He jumped from the chair, shouting nonsense and something that sounded like, "Oh, thank Saint Nicholas."

Neal was in bad shape. Gauze had been wrapped around his shoulder, but blood was still seeping through. His shirt was more red than white, and he looked half asleep.

Keller was sitting in a chair opposite Neal. He was showing him something on a laptop. Peter couldn't hear what he was saying.

And then Neal jumped forward in his chair.

"_No!"_ the shout made Peter jump. _"No! Kate! Kate!" _the screams tore from his throat, raw and painful. He was nearly sobbing. _"Kate!"_ This last shout was so loud that it became distorted, breaking the volume limit on the camera.

"That son of a bitch is making him watch the plane explosion," Peter realized. He watched as Neal pulled, once, against his restraints. His head hung against his chest. His wrists went limp. It was at that moment that Peter realized – Neal had given up.

**-O-**

**So, that was basically just a recap of the past five chapters. Was it worth it? I promise next chapter will be more interesting. **


	10. Suits

**You can thank NaNoWriMo for this much quicker than average update :)**

**So, this story is actually almost over. Finally. How long has it been? Nearly a year? XD **

**-O-**

**Chapter 10**

**Suits (Will be Suits)**

"_I beat Neal Caffrey."_

That was the third time Peter had watched Keller's smug face say those four words. The third time since that morning that he had found nothing on the tape. No tell-tale clue – yet he was still convinced he was missing something. He had to be. There had to be something. There had to be.

Peter began it again.

"Why do we keep watching this?" Peter jumped at the sound of Mozzie's voice. He'd all but forgotten about him.

"What are you still doing here?" He sighed. His eyes flicked for to the screen, and back to Mozzie. He wouldn't miss anything in the footage – there was nothing. Not in this part.

"I'm… going to help you find Neal," Mozzie said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Peter rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Of course you are."

"I know, shocked me too, suit." Mozzie turned to the screen. "So, what are we looking for?"

Peter followed his gaze. On the screen, Keller threw his first punch. Peter blinked, unable to stop watching Neal's reaction as he received the blows. There had to be something on this tape.

He turned back to Mozzie. "Keller slipped up somewhere. That somewhere is what we're looking for."

Mozzie snorted. "Good luck with that." He swiveled the chair so that he could rest his elbows on the conference table. His palms pressed together, his chin rested on his fingertips. It was the most vulnerable Peter had ever seen him act.

They had to find something.

"We _will_ find him, Mozzie."

"Yeah, yeah," Mozzie waved away his words. He pointed to the screen. "Keep watching, suit."

-O-

Peter had never understood the phrase "sick at heart". Sure, he knew what it was supposed to imply, and he knew the context it was used in. But he'd never really _understood_ it, how it felt. Until he'd watched his friend pushed past the brink of defeat. Until he'd watched Keller exact his version of revenge on Neal. Until he'd watched it, and watched it again, and again. And he couldn't _do_ anything to prevent it.

And yet he still watched it, hoping somehow he'd find a way to cure the sickness.

He'd watched, over and over again, as Neal gave up. Gave up hoping that someone would rescue him, gave up the hope that he could save himself. Gave up fighting, and let Keller win.

And that was exactly why Peter wouldn't give up.

-O-

"This is hopeless," Mozzie threw his hands in the air after the video ended for the fifth time. "I told you, Keller is unbeatable."

Peter stopped, his finger hovering above the "play" button. "Pessimism never helps," he retorted. He bit his lip to stop from kicking Mozzie out of the room, as he'd been doing for quite some time now. He was Neal's friend, he had a right to be here. But he _really_ was not helping.

The sixth time was no different. Peter gritted his teeth through each scene and kept his eyes on the screen. He gritted his teeth and watched. Watched. Watched as Neal lost again. Watched even as his mind told him not to.

Neal was going to owe him. Big time.

And then he heard it.

It sounded like rain. Peter had assumed it was rain. It had been raining earlier, so why not?

But there was something different about this rain. It didn't… sound right.

He turned to Mozzie. "Do you hear that?"

"My friend getting the crap beat out of him? Yes, yes I can hear that."

Peter ignored the sarcasm. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he cut out the very noise Mozzie had just mentioned, leaving only the background noise. The rain.

He rewound and pressed play.

Mozzie squinted his eyes. "Is that rain?"

"Maybe," Peter turned up the volume.

"But it stopped raining two scenes back."

Peter held out a finger, indicating silence. Amazingly, Mozzie complied.

It definitely sounded like rain, but there was something off. It wasn't drumming on the roof. It was just… falling.

"Is that… the ocean?"

Mozzie was right. It did sound like waves crashing against a shoreline. But it wasn't quite that, either. No… And why hadn't they heard waves earlier, if they were indeed by an ocean?

Peter's heart threatened to burst out of his chest, it beat so fast and hard. They were so close, so close. _This is it. Keller slipped_.

The scene changed. Peter rewound it.

Down in the bullpen, several people clapped as an IT worker fixed some computer problem.

Clapping.

Cheering.

"That's it," Peter turned to Mozzie. "It's a _crowd_."

"Screaming fans," Mozzie added.

They'd done it. Keller had messed up. It was tiny, a tiny mistake. But it was a mistake that could lead them to Neal.

"It'd have to be a big crowd to make that much noise," Peter rewound it again. And paused it.

The news. The baseball game.

And there just happened to be a vacant house near the Yankee Stadium. Near enough to hear the shouts of screaming fans.

-O-

The door was locked. Of course it was. Keller wouldn't leave the door unlocked. Even if he was sure no one would find him.

Peter kicked the door open, and didn't waste a second running inside. Jones was close behind him. Mozzie was waiting in the car – it had briefly crossed Peter's mind that this ought to shock him, but he shrugged. If Mozzie was willing to listen, so be it. Back-up was five minutes out, but Peter wasn't going to wait. Keller was one man. He didn't need back-up to take down one man.

"Clear," Peter called out. The front rooms were vacant. They didn't even look like they'd been touched. The first twinges of doubt began to cloud Peter's mind. What if they'd gotten the wrong house? What if Neal wasn't here? "Neal!" he shouted. "Neal!"

Down the hallway. The rest of the rooms were the same way. Hadn't been touched.

"Neal?"

"Peter-" Jones began, lowering his own gun.

"I don't want to hear it, Jones."

In the middle of the hallway was a locked door. Peter tested the lock, stepped back with his gun up, and nodded to Jones.

Jones slammed his foot into the door.

Neal was sitting in the middle of the room, head bent, limp in his restraints. Peter holstered his gun and rushed past Jones to his side. He grabbed his wrist – it took him a minute to get past the shock of the deep cuts from the handcuffs – and felt for a pulse. It was still there. He breathed a sigh of relief. Neal was here. Neal was alive. They'd found him. He was going to be okay.

Five days of searching. They'd found him.

Peter turned to Jones, who was standing hesitantly in the doorway. "Call an ambulance," he watched as Jones pulled out his cell phone, muttered something about reception, and disappeared from the doorway before turning back to Neal.

Neal was in horrible shape. His entire face was swollen. The gash on his cheek looked infected. Bruises dotted his face. Blood had dried and crusted under his nose. His cheekbones were more prominent than Peter ever remembered them being, his eyes were sunken in. His shirt was red and pink with dried blood. The gauze was peeling away from the bullet wound. And he was out cold.

He barely looked like Neal.

"Come on, Neal, come on," Peter muttered. He unlocked the handcuffs. Puss and blood oozed out from the cuts in his wrist. "Neal, wake up," Peter lightly tapped his cheek. "Neal!"

And then there was a muzzle of a gun resting against his head. Peter froze. "Keller," he felt his hands curl into fists.

Keller saw it, too. "Uh-uh, I wouldn't. 'Course, if you want a bullet in your skull, go ahead. Try me," he waited. Peter gritted his teeth. Damn it, where was Jones? He hadn't come this far just to be caught by the same monster that he was trying to save Neal from. "Turn around."

Peter did so, pushing himself to his feet and spinning slowly, hands in the air. He met Keller's gaze as the bastard reached around Peter and removed his gun from its holster, tossing it casually over Peter's shoulder.

"You won't get away with this," Peter's voice was even. He wouldn't let Keller get away with this. Not now, not ever.

Keller grinned. It wasn't a satisfied grin, it wasn't even the grin he'd worn while he was torturing Neal. No, this grin was much more malicious. His lips were pressed tightly together, the grin didn't reach his eyes. Keller was pissed.

Peter's gaze flicked to the doorway. Jones still wasn't there.

He lunged, suddenly, grabbing for Keller's gun hand and twisting it away from him. Keller stumbled backwards. Somehow, he managed to keep his grip on the gun. He brought it up and swung the butt end towards Peter's head. Peter ducked, once again going for the gun. Keller dodged to the side. Peter fell forward, and Keller sent his foot into Peter's back. Peter stumbled, colliding with the wall.

He turned just in time to see Keller's gun in his face.

"Any last words you want me to pass on to Caffrey?"

Peter leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He could still feel Keller's boot imprint in his back. "Go to Hell."

A gun fired.

It took Peter several moments to realize that the bullet hadn't found him. His eyes found Keller, lying still on the floor with blood pooling around him from a hole in his shoulder. Neal stood over him, gun poised to shoot again if need be.

Peter cracked a smile. "Thanks," he nodded.

Neal's eyes didn't leave Keller. Peter gently took the gun from Neal's shaking hands. His grip on the weapon was so tight his knuckles were turning white, but he released it the moment Peter reached for it.

"It's okay, Neal, you're safe now."

Neal looked at Peter. His gaze was vacant, uncomprehending. He held Peter's gaze for several seconds before turning away and walking out the door.

Peter watched him go, worry creasing his brow. He'd been expecting Neal to be shaken up, but this… this was more than that.

-O-

The outside of the house was buzzing with agents when Peter exited, towing a stoic, white-faced Keller in handcuffs. Jones walked up the second he saw them.

"Where were you five minutes ago?" Peter snapped.

Jones blinked, clearly taken aback by his boss's tone. Peter ignored it. "I heard the gunshot. I was about to go in when Neal's friend-" he glanced at Mozzie, who was watching the activity from the inside of the SUV "-convinced me that going in there would only give Keller three hostages."

"Great," Peter glared at Mozzie, who averted his gaze immediately. "Where's Neal?"

Jones pointed to a figure slumped against the outside of the house. Peter handed off Keller to Jones and walked over.

"Hey," Peter slid down the wall next to Neal.

Neal hastily swiped a track of wetness off his face, and turned to Peter.

"You okay?" Neal blinked. Peter shook his head. "Right, never mind."

They were both silent for a moment. Peter watched Neal, and Neal watched the agents crawling all over the yard. His gaze kept flicking to Keller. At that moment, there was no one in the world who had bigger enemies. Peter chuckled as he realized this, and Neal's eyes met his. In them, Peter could see relief. Relief, but also hurt. Uncertainty, directed at Peter. Peter knew what he was thinking – yes, he'd come to Neal's rescue, but he'd come five days too late. He hadn't been there when Neal needed him, when Neal was fighting for his life. And Neal knew that.

Sirens blared as an ambulance sped into the driveway. Paramedics had hopped out before the vehicle had even stopped moving, and several agents immediately directed them in Neal's direction. Peter stood and backed away, watching from a distance as they loaded Neal onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance. He considered hopping in the back with him, but glanced toward his car and Mozzie, watching anxiously from the window, and stopped himself. He'd drive straight to the hospital in his car, of course, but right now Neal needed space.

Neal was hurt. Anyone could see that. But he would get better, and Peter would be with him the entire time.

**-O-**

**The end.**

**Just kidding. Still have one or two more chapters to go. Thank you all for bearing with me for this long! **


	11. Time

**Last chapter! Wow, I really can't believe this story is finally over. It took a while. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and/or review this story, it really means the world to me. **

**Quick side note – would anyone be interested in reading a White Collar/Psych crossover? I have no definite plans yet, but it may be a possibility.**

**Happy New Year's Eve, everyone! Wow. Tomorrow is 2012. I… just… what? XD **

**-O-**

**Chapter 11**

**Time**

Breathe. In. Out.

Peter threw open the front door to the hospital. Ambulance lights flashed in the background.

In. Out.

He flashed his badge at the lady at the front desk. She glanced from him to Mozzie and back again as he spoke.

"Agent Peter Burke. I need to get to surgery."

The lady was flustered, eyes flicking to the ambulance lights reflecting in the windows of the building. "I'm sorry, sir. I can't allow you back there unless you're a doctor. Or a patient." She eyed him. He gritted his teeth.

In. Out.

"You don't understand-"

"No exceptions. You'll have to wait." She pointed down the hall to a large open area with chairs and a couch lined against the walls.

Mozzie opened his mouth to speak, and Peter held up a hand. They walked to the chairs and sat opposite each other. Peter's fingers drummed on the arm rest. Mozzie fidgeted with his hands.

Neal was safe. Keller was in custody. It was over. No more race against time, no more stupid game of chess.

So why was Peter's heart still racing? He should have been relieved. Happy.

Relieved.

It was hard to be relieved when Neal was still in surgery. Still fighting against the wrongs Keller had done to him. Peter couldn't get that image out of his mind. Neal. Hopeless, beaten, gone. The scene kept replaying, rewinding, replaying.

"Hey, suit?" Mozzie's voice startled Peter. He'd forgotten about him. Neal's friend. Neal's _best_ friend.

He studied the man closely. His cool façade, which he had slowly begun to lose over the past few hours, was beginning to reappear. His hands still kneaded the armrest of the chair, the corners of his mouth were still pulled down into a frown. But his breathing was steady, even, which was more than could be said for Peter, who had to suck in a deep breath every other minute just to calm himself.

"Yeah?" his voice was surprisingly steady.

Mozzie hesitated. "Thanks," he mumbled, glancing down at his hands.

Peter nodded. The sound of the hospital doors swishing open prevented him from saying anymore. A voice drifted down the hall to them.

"I'm looking for Peter Burke?" the voice belonged to Elizabeth. Moments later, she appeared around the corner. One look at her husband's face sent her running in his direction. He stood up as she reached him, and they wrapped their arms around each other in a comforting hug.

"We got him, El. We got him."

"Yeah, you did," she reassured him, standing back. Peter sat, and Elizabeth took the seat next to him. She glanced at Mozzie, who had politely looked away when she entered.

"How're you holding up, Moz?" she asked.

"Fine," Mozzie answered dismissively, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Neal's in surgery," Peter told her. He glanced down the hall. Neal was somewhere back there, fighting.

El grabbed her husband's hand and squeezed it comfortingly. "Will he be okay?"

Peter glanced back at her. "Physically or mentally?" he shook his head, adding, "I hope so. I really do. Keller did a number on him, El."

-O-

"Mr. Burke?" a man wearing a doctor's jacket appeared in the waiting room. Peter blinked awake. He glanced at the clock. 4:37. He must have dozed off. Why hadn't El waked him? He needed to stay awake, for Neal.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Caffrey is out of surgery now. His anesthesia should be wearing off soon. Would you like to see him?"

Peter stood, nudging Mozzie with his feet. El wrapped her hand around his as they followed the doctor down the hall.

Neal was asleep in the hospital bed. His breathing was strong and even, the steady rise and fall of his chest reassuring. His right arm was in a sling, a bandage wrapped around his shoulder. Another smaller bandage covered the slice on his cheek, and two more encircled his wrists. Peter glanced at El, watched for her reaction to the bruises still dotting Neal's face and body. She blinked, and snaked her arm around Peter's waist, pulling him close.

Peter fingered the anklet in his pocket. Jones had dropped it off a while ago, per Peter's request. It was a new model, unable to be removed by anything – not even a very sharp pair of scissors – except for the key that Peter had in the same pocket.

He pulled away from El, and moved to the foot of the bed. In one fluid movement, he snapped the anklet around Neal's ankle before he could think too much about what he was doing. It was a sort of comfort to see it there, though. The steady blinking reassured him that they would never lose Neal again. He glanced back at Mozzie. Mozzie gave a short nod. He understood.

Neal stirred as Peter backed away.

"Neal?" Mozzie was the first to speak.

Neal's eyes blinked open. Peter saw his muscles tense as he tried to figure out where he was, tried to remember.

Mozzie noticed too. He moved to Neal's bedside. "Neal."

Neal's head snapped in Mozzie's direction, and he cringed in pain. After a moment of takinf in his friend's appearance, he spoke. "Mozzie?"

Mozzie nodded. "How're you feeling?"

Neal either hadn't heard the question, or was choosing to ignore it as his gaze swept around the room. He zeroed in on Peter. "Keller?"

Peter nodded. "He's in our custody, Neal. You're safe now."

Neal's gaze found the anklet blinking on his ankle. His face tightened for the briefest of moments before he looked away.

"You know I had to, Neal," Peter began, but stopped after receiving a harsh look from Mozzie and an elbow to the ribs from Elizabeth.

The few moments of awkward silence were interrupted by the doctor's reappearance. He looked apologetically at Peter, El, and Mozzie. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave now. Visiting hours are over, and Mr. Caffrey needs his rest. You can come back tomorrow at 8 o'clock."

Peter turned away from Neal, pulling out his badge from his pocket.

"Special Agent Peter Burke with the FBI. Now, you may not have noticed the blinking jewelry on your patient, but you should know what it means," when there was no response from the doctor, Peter continued. "It means we're not going anywhere."

"Peter," Neal spoke. Everyone simultaneously turned in his direction. "Go. You need sleep. I'll be okay."

Peter shook his head without hesitation. "Not a chance, Neal."

"I'm not leaving either," Mozzie added. El gripped Peter's hand.

"Fine," the doctor sighed, clearly unhappy as he checked Neal's monitor and left.

Peter and El took seats adjacent to the bed, and Mozzie took the one in the corner.

"Peter," Neal looked in his direction. "Thank you."

Peter nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. "You heard the doctor," he said. "Rest."

-O-

Neal stayed in the hospital for the next five days. Peter had been given a week off of work, and either him or Mozzie was always with Neal in the hospital. The hospital staff had reluctantly agreed to allow them to stay overnight.

Many nights, Peter was awoken in the middle of the night to Neal's tossing and turning in his sleep. Peter could only imagine what nightmares he was having. Several times he woke, sitting bolt upright in a cold sweat. He'd look around frantically until his eyes found Peter. They'd exchange a few words, always Peter reassuring Neal that he was okay, that he was safe.

The worst was when Neal called out for Kate in his sleep. Peter would have to go over and wake Neal out of his nightmare, all the while reassuring _himself_ that Neal would be okay, he would recover. Most of the time he just wanted to go the facility where Keller was being held and punch him. In the face.

-O-

Neal looked around his apartment, taking in the familiar scenery. Peter had just dropped him off, and it had taken all of his argumentative power to convince him that he didn't need to be helped up to his own rooms.

Walking farther into the room, he was suddenly overwhelmed with feelings of relief. His shoulder ached, a painful reminder of Keller and his work, but that's all it was now. A reminder.

A very powerful reminder. Neal walked over to his liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of wine.

Several glasses later, there was a knock at the door. Neal jumped, a drop of wine sloshing onto the counter. Unbidden, his heart began to beat the slightest bit faster. He took a deep breath, shook his head. Keller was behind bars, and he was safe.

He cracked the door open. Mozzie's face filled the frame. Neal opened the door wider. "Hey, Moz."

Mozzie nodded. The door opened wider, and another familiar figure entered behind Mozzie. Neal sighed. "Peter."

"Hey, Neal."

"What're you guys doing here?" Neal asked warily, closing the door behind them.

"Oh, just checking in," Peter glanced at the open bottle of wine and nearly-empty wine glass on the table. He turned, ignoring the fact that Mozzie was in the middle of pouring himself a glass, and gave Neal a pointed look.

"Hey, don't judge me," Neal held his hands up defensively.

"I'm not judging."

"Yes, you are. There is definite judging going on in that corner."

Peter ignored him. Instead, he grabbed a wine glass and poured some of the wine into it. Taking a sip, he shrugged. "Not bad."

Neal threw his hands into the air, mouthing "Unbelievable!" and glaring at Peter.

Peter shrugged. "What? I thought you could use some company."

Neal scoffed. "Yeah, okay. That's enough, out." He opened the door for Peter. "Come on, I don't need you checking up on me every half hour."

"I haven't done that," Peter was incredulous. Neal plucked the wine glass from his hands as he passed him on his way out the door.

"Yes, you have. Should I go through my call log?" he reached into his pocket for his cell phone.

"Okay, no, you're right and I'm sorry. I'm just worried, Neal. What Keller did-"

"What Keller did was condemn himself to prison, Peter. I. Am. Fine. Good night." He shut the door.

"Are you going to kick me out, next?" Mozzie asked, taking a sip from his glass.

Neal sighed. "No, Moz, you can stay." He grabbed his own wine glass, downing the rest of it and pouring another.

-O-

It was late. Mozzie had just left. Peter had miraculously refrained from calling again. Neal lined the dirty wine glasses up next to the sink, too tired to wash them tonight. Storing the wine, he made his way to the bathroom and turned on the shower water.

A spray of water rained down into the tub in front of him, spraying him with a light mist and making a loud drumming sound as it pounded into the tub. Neal froze. His heart pounded, his mouth dried. His shoulder ached as raw memories sprang to the forefront of his mind. Memories of dark, dark and wet places. His breath came in short gasps. Memories of drowning in eternal darkness and water, of lungs screaming for air. He fumbled to turn of the shower, stumbled backwards against the wall, where he slid into a sitting position.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't take a damn shower because of Keller. He was free, he was safe in his own apartment. Yet, as his jumping, fast-beating heart reminded him, he was still helpless.

-O-

The next day found Neal walking into the FBI offices, not at all confident and with no intent to let anyone know that. He knocked on the door to Peter's office. Peter looked up, surprise written all over his face as he took in Neal standing in the doorway.

"Hey, Peter," Neal smiled, trying to break the awkwardness that his appearance had created.

"Neal," Peter nodded. "You know you don't have to be here, right?"

"I know."

Peter considered this for a moment, and then shrugged. "Okay then. Here," he handed Neal a file from his desk.

"What's this?" Neal asked.

"New case that came in while you-… while you were in the hospital." Neal pretended he hadn't heard Peter's falter.

He opened the file. Whistled. "The Kingfisher, wow."

"Yep," Peter nodded to the files. "Take a look, tell me what you think."

"Will do," Neal muttered, nose in the papers as he walked back to his own desk in the bullpen.

An hour later, Neal threw down the papers in frustration. He couldn't concentrate. Words kept blurring into one another. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. Last night's breakdown kept flashing into his mind. What else in Neal's life had Keller tainted?

He ran his hand through his hair, wincing as he pulled his sore ribs and shoulder. He let his hand fall. Stared at the bandages encircling his wrists. It had taken seventy-two stitches to sew up the cuts caused by Keller's damn handcuffs. Seventy-two more reminders.

He stood up abruptly, made for the bathroom. He turned on the faucet. Stuck his hands under the running water. The cold water struck his skin and he flinched. A sharp bolt of anger pierced through him. What gave Keller the right to invade his life like this? It should have been over. Over and done. Nothing to worry about. _Done_, damn it.

Neal brought his hands up, splashed the water onto his face. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and his hands shook uncontrollably. He dashed over to the paper towels and patted the water from his face with unsteady hands. His entire body was quivering. The worst part was that he couldn't run. There was no way to run from this. He had to endure it, had to live through every scar Keller had left on him.

No.

No. Neal crumpled the paper towel, threw it in the trash. Clasped his hands together to stop them from shaking. He would not be helpless. He wouldn't let Keller rule his life. He was done feeling sorry for himself.

-O-

Taking a deep breath, Neal pushed open the door. He'd never been down this part of the FBI offices before, and was surprised to see how well furnished the FBI-appointed therapist's office was. Looking around, he spotted the secretary.

"Hi," he tried a smile. "My name is Neal Caffrey. I'm here to see Dr. Weston."


End file.
